AZALIYAH RISE OF THE FAE

COME HONE PRINCESS (PT.1)

The village woke up like it had no choice in the matter. By the time the sun had fully climbed over the treeline, people were already outside patching broken fences, hauling splintered wood, and talking over one another like being half-killed in the dark was just another inconvenience on a long list of daily bullshit. Azaliyah sat on the low stone steps outside the main hall with a cup of something hot in her hands that definitely wasn’t soup this time, her entire body aching in places she didn’t even know she could hurt.

Her head still felt a little off from the darkness, her pride felt even worse from getting knocked unconscious in front of an entire village, and to make matters more insulting, Camron looked entirely too awake for someone who had spent the night fighting raiders, dragging her dead weight out of a magical backfire, and getting lectured by an old woman who could probably smell bad decisions from across a field. He stood a few feet away near the railing, half-turned toward her with that irritatingly calm expression of his, like he was enjoying the fact that she was sore, humiliated, and one sarcastic comment away from throwing her cup at his head.

Camron glanced over at her, caught the look on her face, and smiled in the exact way people smile when they know they’re being annoying on purpose.

“You know,” he said, stretching his shoulders like he hadn’t ached once since yesterday, “for someone born into royal blood, you hit the ground hard as shit.”

Azaliyah slowly turned her head toward him, eyes narrowing over the rim of the cup. “For someone who looks like a rejected taxidermy project, you talk way too much this early.”

He let out a laugh at that, low and unbothered, then stepped closer and leaned one shoulder against the post beside her. “I’m serious. One second you were screaming at me, the next you launched yourself into unconsciousness. Honestly impressive timing.”

She stared at him for a beat, then set the cup beside her before she was tempted to throw it. “I passed out because my magic backfired.”

“No,” he said, grinning wider now, “you passed out because your magic got tired of your attitude.”

Azaliyah rose from the steps slower than she wanted to, every muscle protesting, then shoved him hard enough to make him take half a step back. “Keep talking and I’ll show you what still works.” Camron looked down at where she’d pushed him, then back at her with obvious amusement.

“There she is. I was worried the potion only brought back your bad posture.”

Azaliyah opened her mouth with every intention of saying something foul enough to ruin his morning, but the words died when Elder Misha’s cane struck the ground between them with a sharp c***k that carried more authority than either of them was prepared for. Neither had heard her approach.

“Wonderful,” she said dryly, looking from one to the other like she regretted saving them both. “The village is rebuilding, people are injured, fences are broken, and the two of you have chosen sunrise to flirt through attempted assault.”

Azaliyah recoiled instantly. “I would rather eat rocks.”

Camron straightened, offended on principle. “That wasn’t flirting.”

Misha gave him a long look. “You’re right. Flirting usually requires charm.” Azaliyah snorted before she could stop herself, then quickly wiped the satisfaction off her face when Misha turned those same eyes on her. “And you,” the old woman said, pointing the cane at her chest, “wipe that look off your face. You still detonated yourself in front of thirty witnesses.” Azaliyah folded her arms, jaw tightening. “Can everyone here let that go already?”

“No,” Misha said flatly.

“Not until it stops being funny.” Camron coughed into his fist to hide a laugh and immediately caught another tap of the cane against his shin for the effort.

“Good,” Misha muttered. “You’re both awake. That saves me time. Finish whatever that is in your cup, fairy girl. Then meet me in the training yard. I’m going to see whether your power is truly unstable or if you’re simply dramatic.”

Azaliyah looked down at the steaming cup in her hand, then back at Misha with pure suspicion.

“Training yard?” she repeated. “I can barely lift my arms. My spine sounds expensive. I’m pretty sure one of my ribs is considering retirement.”

Misha was already turning away. “Then it will suffer productively.”

Azaliyah pushed herself off the steps with a hiss and glared at Camron like any of this was somehow his fault. “Say one thing. Just one stupid thing.”

He lifted both hands innocently, though the grin on his face ruined the performance. “I was going to say you move beautifully under pressure.” She took a step toward him.

“And now I’m going to make you swallow your teeth.” Camron laughed and fell into stride beside her as they followed Misha through the village. Around them, people worked with the blunt efficiency of those too tired to complain. Roof beams were being replaced, carts reloaded, scorch marks scrubbed from stone. No one babied them. No one praised them for helping in the fight. They were watched, measured, and quietly judged, which somehow irritated Azaliyah more than open hostility would have.

“Your people are warm,” she muttered.

Misha kept walking. “They are not my people when they’re annoyed. They’re simply villagers.”

Camron glanced sideways at Azaliyah. “Could be worse.”

“How?” she snapped.

“They could like you,” he said, dead serious. Even Misha let out a small sound that might have been a laugh before she killed it. Azaliyah stared at both of them in disgust.

“I hate this village already.”

The training yard sat behind the main hall, a wide patch of packed earth ringed by old wooden posts scarred from years of blades, claws, and whatever other bad decisions had been tested there. Weapons lined one wall in rough order. Buckets of water, stacks of sandbags, broken shields, and split targets crowded the edges like the place had never once known peace. A handful of villagers were already there pretending not to stare as Azaliyah entered, which meant they were staring harder than anyone else could have managed openly.

Misha walked to the center of the yard and planted her cane in the dirt. “Right,” she said. “We begin with honesty. Your magic is powerful, undisciplined, emotional, loud, and prone to embarrassing public incidents.”

Azaliyah folded her arms. “You keep saying embarrassing like I did it on purpose.”

“Intent rarely matters to the people you blast across a field,” Misha replied.

Camron wandered over to a weapons rack, lifted a sword, tested the balance, then immediately put it back like it had offended him personally. “So what’s the plan?” he asked. “She screams at the sky until lightning happens?”

“Close,” Misha said. “First, I remove distractions.” She turned and pointed directly at him. “You. Run laps.”

Camron blinked. “What?”

“Around the yard. Until I’m tired of seeing you.”

He looked genuinely insulted. “That feels targeted.”

“It is,” Misha said. “Move.”

Azaliyah’s laugh came out before she could stop it, sharp and bright enough to earn a few smirks from the watching villagers. Camron stared at her, then at Misha, then began jogging with the dignity of a man forced into humiliation by forces beyond his control.

“This place is corrupt,” he muttered as he passed.

Misha ignored him and faced Azaliyah fully. “Now,” she said, voice dropping into something colder, more serious. “Let’s find out what lives inside you when no one is there to blame.”

Azaliyah’s smirk faded on instinct. The yard seemed quieter all at once, even with Camron muttering curses somewhere behind her as he circled the posts. Misha stepped closer, close enough that Azaliyah could see the age in her face and the steel sitting comfortably beneath it.

“Hands out,” the old woman said. Azaliyah obeyed, though reluctantly, extending both palms. “Now call your magic.” Azaliyah inhaled, focused, and reached for the same thing she always imagined power was supposed to feel like. Heat. Pressure. A current under the skin waiting to answer. Nothing happened. Misha waited. Azaliyah tried again, jaw tightening this time, pushing harder, willing something to rise.

A tiny spark snapped across one fingertip, then died so fast it felt insulting. Somewhere to the left, one of the villagers coughed into a laugh and tried to disguise it badly. Azaliyah’s face hardened.

“Again,” Misha said.

“I am trying.”

“No,” Misha replied calmly. “You are forcing. Trying looks different.”

Azaliyah dragged in another breath, shoulders tense, frustration climbing fast enough to taste. She pushed again. Still nothing. Camron jogged past at that exact moment, breathing easy and smiling like an asshole. “Need me to yell something mean? Seems to help.”

Azaliyah turned on him so sharply the power finally answered. Violet energy burst from both hands in a violent arc, missing Camron by inches and obliterating one of the wooden posts behind him. The post exploded into splinters, dust, and panicked shouting. Camron dove sideways with surprising grace for someone half beast, hit the dirt, rolled once, then sprang up staring at the crater where he’d been. “Good,” he said after a beat, brushing dirt from his shoulder.

“So we’ve confirmed attempted murder still works.” The villagers were no longer pretending not to watch. Misha, meanwhile, looked almost pleased. “Excellent,” she said. “Now we have something to work with.” Azaliyah stared at the wrecked post, then at her own hands.

“I hate when she’s right.”

Misha circled the shattered post slowly, tapping one splintered piece with her cane as if inspecting livestock.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “No response to focus. No response to discipline. Immediate response to irritation and violence. You truly are your father’s child.”

Azaliyah frowned. “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“That depends,” Misha said, glancing at her. “Did you enjoy destroying my property?”

Camron limped back into the circle, still dusting himself off with exaggerated offense. “Can we discuss the part where I nearly died because she got annoyed?”

“You did not nearly die,” Misha replied. “You were dramatically inconvenienced.”

“There was wood in my mouth.”

“Then chew less while running.” A few villagers laughed openly this time. Camron pointed at them.

“I’d like it noted this place enjoys my suffering.”

Azaliyah couldn’t help it. She laughed too, short and sharp, though it faded quickly when Misha turned serious again. “Listen carefully,” the old woman said. “Your magic is tied to truth. Not thought. Not posture. Not whatever stiff nonsense you keep trying to imitate. It answers when you feel something real enough to c***k the shell you put around yourself.”

Azaliyah’s amusement died completely. “I don’t have a shell.”